The Better Man?
by Slightly Sinister Sinestra
Summary: An exploration of what Javert and Valjean would have thought of each other had they gotten the chance to spend time together without running over half of France. Will be a chapter fic.
1. Chapter 1

Important! - read the author's note _first_!

Okay. I promised I'd write another Les Mis fanfic at some stage. This is it. Historically, and probably even in terms of the story, the events here are wildly inaccurate,but they _could_ have happened, and that's what's important. For example, I have no idea if the student rebellion caused riots elsewhere in the city, or if they could have happened on the night Valjean and Marius escaped the barricades, but there's one here, okay? Also, this story is centered around Javert and Valjean, as they are my favourite characters, and it is an exploration of the relationship they _might_ have had, given the chance. That does NOT mean a romantic relationship. It may, later: I haven't yet decided, but primarily it is simply an exploration of what they might have thought of each other had they had time together where they weren't chasing one another or capturing on another, or just generally running about the place trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Thus this chapter, and the events therein, are simply a plot device to get them together for a suitable length of time. It's plausibility is a secondary concern.

Thank you for listening to this ramble. Now, on to the story.

Disclaimer: I do not own any element of any version of Les Miserable. That privilige belongs to Victor Hugo and various others. They have my undying respect for what they have brought to life.

The Better Man?

Chapter 1

"Go up. I will wait for you here." Had he really said it? Had he really let something so insubordinate escape his lips? He couldn't do this! He was Javert, an officer of the law. That was the entirity of his being! And yet he said "I will wait here." With those words, he let a convict go free. How could this be?

For a long moment, he stood in the shadows under the eves of Valjean's house, the house of a convict, and he shook with fear of the choice his heart had made for him, without ever consulting his mind. By his honour, he owed Valjean a life for the one the convict had given back to him on the barricade. But by his duty, no convict could be suffered to go free. Honour and duty. When a man is caught between the two, what is he to choose?

But he had made the choice. What was done was done, and to remain here was only to torment them both. He must leave, and ... And what? What was left for him, an officer who had failed the law, to do? Oh, don't think of it. Just move, leave these people, leave Valjean. Leave this place of pain. Move, Javert!

He stepped out into the street, eyes downcast for the first time in his life, his inner self preoccupied. And that was what cost him. That posture, so foreign to him, was what allowed them to get so close. Some instinct, deep and feline, sensed them, but too late. His head snapped up, eyes glaring out at the ring of men, but they had closed around him, and there was nowhere he could retreat to save into the house itself. And no matter the threat, he could not go there.

"What goes here?" he demanded crisply, former attitude and command regained. They shifted around him, eyeing him warily. No uniforms, he noted, not even the ragtag scarves of the rebels. Simple work clothes, homemade weapons, knives and tools and old, rusted carbines. A laughing stock for a seasoned company, but for one man, alone, the ranks of rusting edges was intimidating. But they couldn't see that. Not one of them would see his uncertainty. He was better than that.

"Lawman," one spat. Literally. The spittle hit the flags not two feet from Javert's boot. "Get gone, lawman. We have business with this house."

Javert raised an eyebrow. "Business? What business requires so many men, and so many weapons? No lawful business, I suspect. There is trouble enough this night. Do not think to add to it."

"Or what?" a shewolf sneered, shifting her kitchen blade in her hand. "You going to stop us, lawman? You going to get in our way? Don't seem the smart thing to do, lawman."

"Aye," another agreed. "Our business is with the house, and others like it. We're on your side, lawman. We're punishing the ones who brought this trouble on us. We know the man here went to the barricades. We know him for what he is. He's one of them! A rebel!"

"They brought the slaughter!" A woman cried, from the back of the crowd. "My boy is dead because of them! They have to pay!"

"Out of our way, lawman!"

"Yes, out!"

"Make him move! Kill him! Kill them!"

Javert stiffened, hand resting on his baton. It wouldn't be much use, not against so many, but he couldn't consider backing down. There were people in that house. Granted, one of them was Valjean, but that did not make it just for this mob to run rampant through. If the girl was there ... Please, at least let Valjean have had the sense to see her somewhere safe before all this began. But even that aside, it was his duty to protect others, and to stop such scenes of violence and lawlessness. He had let his duty slip once this night. He would not do so a second time!

"Be still, all of you!" he barked, giving them a moment's pause. He made the most of it. "What you are about is unlawful! It is not your place to judge who must live and who must die! If you consider this justice, then you are no better than the rebels you target! Return to your homes, at once! The law will see justice done to the rebels, and their helpers. It is not your place!"

"The law will see justice done?!" A youth in the front squawked furiously. Javert levelled a cool gaze at him, but this only puffed the foolish peacock up. "Will you see justice done, lawman? When as we arrived you were leaving this man free? You tell us what we do is unlawful, yet you would let one of them live, and freely! Explain this, lawman!"

He should have responded, put the boy down, and quickly. If he had, then events might not have exploded as they did. If he had kept the presence of mind to control the situation properly, what followed would never have happened. But he couldn't. The youth's impassioned taunt had struck far too close to home. His mind was still full of confusion and doubt about that very issue. These people could know nothing of his history with Valjean, or how much it cost him to leave him free. They simply reacted to what they saw as betrayal on his part. And he didn't, couldn't, speak back fast enough. The moment's hesitation was all the proof of his betrayal they needed.

"He's one of them too! Kill him! Kill them all!"

They swarmed over him, and he fought. Alone, with no time or space to draw his pistols, with only his baton to defend himself, to stop them, he fought. Edged weapons glittered in his field of vision, and he responded, parrying as best he could, striking flesh where he got the chance, struggling always to stay upright and retain his hold on his weapon. He had no real chance, and he knew it. A mob could not be fought alone, without backup. But he couldn't surrender, not until the last scrap of energy was beaten out of him.

A blow caught him in the head. A club, or similar, thankfully not a bladed weapon, but it felled him. He pitched forward, suddenly numb fingers losing all grip on the baton. Immediately they were on him. A boot descended on his hand, crushing his fingers, while something heavier struck his back. Fists landed. In close quarters, weapons were abandoned as bloodlust took over, and they pounded into him. All the pent up worry and fear and frustration of this troubled night flooded out of them, and onto him, their helpless target. He tried to fight back, but there was no air, no space, and there were too many fists and boots, too many people from too many directions. It was hopeless. He was dead, and he knew it. He simply had to wait for the final blow, that would steal his consciousness and leave his body helpless in their grasp.

A roar of fury cut through their panting, cheering, bloodthirsty babble. Some monstrous form tossed them aside. Javert watched it incomprehendingly through slitted eyes. Some of his tormentors were too caught up in their fury to realise what came, relentlessly pounding him, and they were flung away from him like ragdolls. A moment later, and those powerful hands seized him, catching him up into a rough embrace as the form continued through, carrying him clear to a doorway. His lolling head allowed him glimpses of faces, furious and screaming, on all sides, until they were clear. Then the monster turned in the doorway, turned out to face them, and an enraged bellow silenced them.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" the voice roared. Javert, lying against the broad chest, felt it vibrate with the force of the sound. "HOW DARE YOU! THIS MAN, WHO DEFENDED YOU AGAINST THESE REBELS YOU SPEAK OF, AND YOU DO THIS!? HOW DARE YOU!"

They cowered back. To be frank, anything up to a small army could've been convinced to retreat when faced with this figure. In fury, Valjean was truly impressive. It happened so rarely, this fury, that even Javert could forget how powerful the man was. Not now. Not caught up in Valjean's arms, facing the cowering figures of a mob who, moments before, had been well on their way to beating him to death. But inside, despite gratitude for his continuing existence, there was a little voice screaming its frustration. Not again, it cried. He's saved me again! Another debt! Does this man never tire of them!

Valjean glowered out at them, the rage making his face fearsome, his mountainous build lending him gravitas that Javert's slighter form couldn't have hoped to achieve. That also annoyed the policeman. That, and the fact that Valjean added indignity to injury by holding him aloft like a fainting woman. Damn the insufferable man! Why must he do this?

"LEAVE," Valjean bellowed, stepping forward a pace, incredibly threatening. "LEAVE US NOW, VILE EXCUSES FOR MEN! LEAVE!" And they did. Caught cold, much of their agression already vented on Javert, and with many of their weapons discarded in the rush to hurt him, their confidence in the face of this new, more powerful threat evaporated. Which left Javert alone, with Valjean. For a moment, he almost thought he'd have prefered to be beaten to death.

With the threat gone, the tension and power in the other man faded, and his stance relaxed slightly. Javert felt the stiff stance leech away, and began to speak, to make Valjean release him. Then Valjean looked down at him, raw concern painting the broad face, and Javert was speechless. He tried to move his head, his arms, tried to engage with the situation, make sense of it, and failed. His body was too battered to obey him. For a brief moment, a flicker of frustrated pain crossed his face.

"Oh Javert," Valjean whispered, turning into the house, still carrying him. Javert was at a loss, unsure how to respond, unsure if he _could_ respond at all. He lay silent and limp in his once-prey's arms, thoughts boiling in his head, and suddenly afraid. Not because he was helpless. He'd been that before. He'd been bound and helpless before the rebels, been unable to defend himself outside. He knew what it was, could deal with it. What frightened him was that look, that concern. That, he had no experience of whatsoever.

Valjean laid him on a couch, and gently arranged his limbs to make him as comfortable as possible. Javert, bruised and cut, with bones undoubtedly broken, didn't know what to make of it. Bloodied as he was, filthy from the ground and the soles of boots, he was probably ruining the furniture, yet Valjean didn't seem to care. Which Javert would have understood, Valjean being the man he was, except that Javert was also the man _he_ was. To let a lifelong enemy live is one thing, to tend to his comfort is another. Why would Valjean do this, for _him_?

The convict left for a few minutes, reappearing with a bowl of water and a washcloth. He set them down, looking Javert over. The scrutiny caused a painful flush to heat the inspector's face. He disliked being the object of such appraisal, conscious as he was of his fouled condition. Then Valjean reached out towards him, and tenderly brushed some of his hair away from his face. The gentle touch neat undid Javert, and his tormented emotions rushed to the surface for a moment before he could wrestle them back down. Damn him, he was _not_ going to lose control! Not here! Anywhere but here!

"Javert?" Valjean spoke softly. "Monsieur l'inspector, can you understand me?" Frustrated, Javert managed a painful nod, furious how much effort it took to move. "Javert, I need to see your injuries, do you understand? I need to remove your clothes." Valjean blushed slightly, but it was nothing to the wave of mortification that washed over his patient. Rationally, he was fully aware of the necessity of the action, and it wasn't as if Valjean were a woman, but still Javert couldn't bear the thought. He had been injured before in the course of duty, and had endured treatment, but not by Valjean! He had not been naked and vunerable before Valjean! He couldn't! God, wasn't everything else he'd gone through this night enough? Must he bear this indignity too?

"Javert?" Valjean gently recalled his attention. "Javert, I'm sorry, but it must be done. Cosette left through the back door, and she has instructions to fetch a doctor, but until he arrives we must see what damage has been done. You need to be ... cleaned, to prevent infection." He hesitated over the verb, obviously not wishing to offend Javert, but the damage had been done. Javert knew his condition, and was only more appalled by the thought of this man seeing the extent of it.

"Wait ..." he forced out. "Wait ... for ... doctor. Will ... be fine. Wait." He was almost begging. The self-disgust he felt, the hatred for this situation, was unrivalled by anything he had yet felt in his life, even that horrible episode where he had apologised to Valjean, under a guise, for correctly identifying him. That memory burned in him, but it was nothing compared to this.

Valjean's face creased with concern and embarrassment for him. It was intolerable. "Forgive me, Javert. It must be done." And he began to open Javert's overcoat. Knowing it was useless to protest, dying of shame, Javert closed his eyes in defense. The weakness of the gesture appalled him, but he had to place some shield between himself and this indignity. The bitter loathing he felt, for this situation, and himself, overwhelmed completely the pain from his wounds. But strangely, there was no hate there for Valjean. The man was only doing what needed to be done. It was not his fault that Javert was too weak to bear it.

"Javert?" There was shock in Valjean's voice, caring too. Javert opened his eyes, blinking against a sudden blur. And realised what it was. Tears. God above. God, no. He was crying? He hadn't wept since he was a child, in the prison, standing over his mother's corpse. God, he was so weak! Pathetic, useless! Weak!

"Javert?" Valjean repeated, more than concern in his face, his voice. "What is it? Have I hurt you?" Desperately, Javert tried to shake his head, the movement jerky and painful. Please, don't ask anymore. Don't do anymore. Please, just leave me.

Valjean's big, coarse hand reached up and gently brushed a tear away. Another rushed to fill its place, the tender action only increasing the flow. Javert choked down a sob, fought to stem the flow as desperately as he had fought the mob. And as futilely. He didn't understand it, didn't understand how a lifetime of control and strength could abandon him so easily to this vile weakness. He was better than this! He had to be! And yet here he lay, crying helplessly on his enemy's couch, watched over by the concerned gaze of that same man.

He turned his head away, into the cushion, trying to hide the tears. Valjean would have none of it. Gently, being so careful with Javert's damaged form, he lifted the distraught man into his embrace, holding his head gently into his shoulder, letting him cry. The shock almost stopped the tears, but it seemed nothing really could truly do that. It was as if every tear Javert had failed to shed in his life, every emotion he'd hidden so carefully, burst out of him in this one moment of weakness.

Valjean rocked him gently, one powerful hand on the back of his head, stroking, soothing. To Javert's shame, it helped. He felt like an infant, worse, because he knew he should be a man, should be stronger than this. But, damn it, to be soothed like that, to be comforted as he never had been in his life, helped. And he cursed himself for letting it. Yes. Better by far had he died outside.

In desperate attempt to save some dignity, he swallowed every sob as it threatened to emerge, with the result that his weeping was silent, but shook his battered frame like repeated earthtremors. Valjean held his vibrating form, keeping him grounded. Javert made no move to react, and gradually his tears petered out, leaving him dry, exhausted, and in pain. He felt feverish, pain blooming behind his eyes to spike mercilessly every time he moved his head. It only reinforced his view that weeping was a vile weakness, and could only bring pain and indignity. But even this vehement opinion soon faded, washed away first by a red tide of pain, then by enroaching blackness.

He felt Valjean lay him back down, as if the man were handling some rare and fragile vase. Vaguely, he heard the startled cry of the girl returning and seeing him. He was too tired even to feel shame at that. He felt, rather than heard, the deep bass of Valjean's voice in reply, and was again curiously comforted by it. After all, as his rational mind desperately excused, at least he knew that if Valjean intended to kill him, he'd have done it by now. Chances were, with this man, that he'd have a chance to awaken and reassess his situation. One must thank God for small mercies.

He was gone completely, faded into exhausted slumber, by the time the doctor laid his hands on him. Later, he would be eternally thankful of being spared that further indignity. Just then, he wouldn't have cared had the rebels come in and danced lewdly on his chest. He was spent.

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That's chapter one. I could explain to you why Javert is so unlike himself here, but some of you will already understand why, and those who don't, rest assured that the man himself is as confused and appalled as you are, so I think we'll find out with him, slowly and painfully.

If you could R&R, I'd appreciate it. Thanks again!


	2. Chapter 2

One of my common story structures is to alter POVs every chapter or so, so every character gets a say. I think, for this story, I will alternate between Javert and Valjean, but don't be suprised if random chapters appear in other voices, okay? Thanks.

For the sake of preserving my sanity, all further chapters are counted as having been disclaimed in chapter1. I will not be repeating this. I. Do. Not. Own. Les Miserables. Okay?

Chapter 2

Valjean watched as the doctor carefully peeled Javert's clothes away. He blushed uncomfortably, remembering the man's distress when he had attempted that. In a way, he was glad the stubborn policeman was not conscious of this, despite the worry that came from the collapse. It was possible that if he lived another hundred years, he would never forget the sensation of that powerful man quaking in his arms. Lord have mercy, he had never thought to see the other man brought so low. And he never wanted to see it. Javert was stubborn and powerful and completely unconscious of threats to himself. Or at least he was _meant_ to be.

The doctor began opening Javert's shirt, having carefully removed his outer garments. Cosette gently cleared her throat beside him, and he startled, remembering her presence, and what it meant.

"Cosette ..." he rumbled, embarrassed.

"I'll leave you, father," she murmured gently. "I'll be upstairs."

He turned to her, struggling to find an explanation, to apologise for having so recklessly sent her out into danger. He should have gone himself, once Javert was safe. He'd made a fine mess of trying to help, anyway. She forestalled him, reading his anguish without having to hear a word.

"I'm alright, father. The streets behind were quiet, and a doctor was needed," she smiled reassuringly, then glanced towards the supine figure on their couch, looking away quickly with a blush as she realised what state the man was in. She met his eyes gravely. "I don't pretend to understand, father. He frightens me, and you. He will not yield, or give up trying to hunt you. So I don't understand why you are helping him. But I know you must do what you feel you need to." She embraced him, quickly, and left.

He stared after her, the warmth of her grasp lingering strangely over the warmth from his desperate attempt to comfort Javert. A curious ache grew in his chest, love for her, for understanding him better than he himself ever could. Because he _didn't_ understand himself, or what he'd done. All he knew was that when, on the stairs, he'd glanced out the window and seen Javert facing down the ring of ruffians, the first thing he'd felt was a sudden pride, and then an unexpected terror as they'd fallen on him. He hadn't even stopped to think, merely shouted for Cosette to run, to fetch a doctor, and leapt back downstairs and outside. He remembered realising that, in the minute between window and door, Javert had gone down, buried somewhere under that writhing heap of bodies and anger. And he'd felt a fist of fear and horror close over his heart, and remembering it, he was confused, and afraid.

In the prison, so long ago, he'd been a different man. He'd kept his peace well enough, alright, but when provoked, his strength and bulk had made him a force to be feared. And he had _used_ that, used the fear he'd inspired to control his surroundings to what little degree he'd been able. He'd used violence as both shield and saber, and had soon been feared by guard and prisoner alike. Since then, since the bishop, he'd learned another way to live. He'd learned to value each person and life and to always keep his peace. He'd slipped along that path at times, but always he'd tried to hold to it. But in that instant, seeing that melee, and knowing that under it lay this man, injured or dead, all his lessons fell away and 24601 had leapt roaring out of him to sweep them away. And that frightened him.

"Sir?" The doctor's quiet summons jerked him out of his musing with a vengence, and he moved in an instant to the crouched man's side. The first thing that caught him was the sight of the slim hand in its dapper cuft laid over a chest mottled black with bruising. Javert's chest. The doctor followed his gaze and nodded. "Three ribs broken. It's not so bad up front, but his back's a mess. And there's this." The hand moved down to where a trouser leg had been cut away to bare a long slash in the policeman's calf. "Nasty thing. Whatever did it looks to have been rusted. I don't think there's blood poisoning, though I can't tell at this stage, but the risk of infection is a problem. A big problem. Monsieur ..."

Valjean looked into his face anxiously, waiting for what had stopped him to emerge. Surely it could not be worse than ... than _this_! This man seemed to be weighing him, even as he felt his anxiety build. "What is it?" he growled harshly. Immediately, he regretted it, and made to apologise, but the doctor raised a hand.

"Monsieur, forgive me. I was trying to find a way to say this gracefully. I am afraid, you see, that this man cannot be moved. I understand the imposition on you and your daughter, but I see no way to avoid it. If his injuries come in contact with infectious material, the risk of illness and infection is too great. In this state, I would be concerned for his chances in fighting a fever or blood-sickness. I'm sorry."

Valjean stared. "You mean he must stay here, on the couch?" he asked slowly. Javert would never tolerate that. It was too public for him to endure. Not to mention the difficulty of him preserving any dignity while being a semi-clothed invalid in front of Cosette. But, thankfully, the doctor shook his head.

"No. If you have a clean room to lay him in, that will be sufficient. You will have to be careful of his ribs, of course. No. It is the streets I'm worried about, and the conditions in the _gendarme_ hospital. He would be better not to move outside the house." Then the doctor looked closely at his doubtful face, and said pointedly, "I don't mean to presume, but this man would seem to have been injured in defense of your house. It would be ... impolite ... to reject him."

Valjean started. "No, Monsieur! I did not mean to imply that I would not have him. But you must understand, he and I ... We are not exactly friends. I do not know how he would take having to remain in my house."

The other man smiled ruefully, shaking his head. "I do not suppose Monsieur l'Inspector has very many friends at all. I doubt it will worry him unduly. Unless," he shot a sharp look at Valjean, "you intend to give him reason to worry?"

Valjean couldn't restrain an appalled look at the implication. He would _never_ harm a man in his care, especially one so injured as Javert. But ... "Never, Monsieur. But, pardon, you know him?"

"Is he supposed to be in disguise?"

Valjean blinked. "No. At least, I do not think so. But how ...?"

"Do you think you are the only man in this city to have crossed paths with the redoubtable inspector?" He smiled gently. "Let us simply say that our friend has a tendancy to make an impression on people. Myself included. And you, no doubt."

Valjean smiled back uncertainly. If only you knew, he thought. Then he turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "He will stay. What do I need to take care of him?"

The doctor stood. "I will dress his injuries myself now, and will send replacements and instructions later. I should also check up on him at least once a week, more in the first two. Is this appropriate?" Bemused, Valjean nodded. Two weeks ... at least! Javert would not be happy about this. He would have to see to a room, on the ground floor so as not to injure the inspector bringing him upstairs, that would give the man some semblance of privacy. Otherwise, he didn't think the inspector would last very long at all.

He looked down at the taunt face tipped against the arm of the couch, frowning even in sleep, and along to the black mass of bruising that the man had recieved fighting for them. For Valjean did not doubt that Javert had stood his ground for their sake. It would have been wiser to retreat, get support, and return. But the man had a sense of honour you could use to hammer steel. It simply wasn't in him to allow an injustice to be commited for the sake of expediency, for all that his view of what actually constituted an injustice was skewed. And Valjean could no more refuse to help him than Javert could have abandoned them to the mob.

"Do what needs to be done, Monsieur doctor. I will take care of him." He didn't look up, still caught in his confused examination of this enigma, and when the hand landed softly on his shoulder, he started.

The doctor looked down at him gravely. "I think you will. Forgive me my presumption, but you seem the kind of man who would. But I do not understand why you say there is nothing between you. Few men would challenge a mob, or countenance such a period of care, for someone they cared nothing for."

Valjean looked back down at Javert. "I did not say there was nothing between us," he corrected softly. "Only that what there is cannot be called friendship. We have a history together, many years in the making. And wherever we go, we always seem to find each other at the journey's end. This man will not die for me. I will not allow it." I will not allow it, he repeated to himself. Not Javert. Their business was yet unfinished. After all, Javert had yet to complete his arrest, end the hunt. And that would be what gave the man will to fight this illness, in the end. Javert disliked mess, he remembered. Well, a mess this would be, until the inspector was healed, and ready to fulfill the promise made so long ago.

Valjean did not notice the doctor leaving tactfully, nor did he fully realise that his hand had strayed up to catch Javert's. He leaned down slightly to murmur to the sleeping man. "I swear to you," he remembered, "I will be there. Rest easy, Monsieur l'Inspector. When the time comes, you will be ready to finish what we started in Toulon. You will make true on your promise in M sur M. I will see to it." He owed Javert that much, for Marius and now Cosette. Their lives were worth a hundred times his, and for helping save them, Javert could have what he wanted of him.

He took one more look at the harsh face, and went to prepare a room.

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Look, I know that promise was from the musical, not the novel, but I always liked it, so here it is. I think that duet in the musical says so much about the two characters and their views of each other. That aside, what do ye think? I hope to continue this, at the cost, it must be said, of some other stories, so R&R?


	3. Chapter 3

This one annoyed me for I don't know how long. I couldn't get it right. So basically I've decided to put it up as is, and accept the criticisms. Javert again.

Chapter 3

Javert awoke, feeling feverish and bewildered. A low, steady thrum of pain coursed through him, washing forward and back like the waves of the sea. He ignored it, finding his lack of memory of where he was a more pressing concern. His body had failed him, but his mind would not. He would not allow it.

He took stock of the situation. He was injured and in a bed. Well and good. However, this was no infirmary, but a private room, spare but well appointed, and he had absolutely no idea where it might be. Angrily, he tried to cudgel his memory into cooperation, but only recieved a confused string of images, barricades and mobs and angry fists beating down on him. From all evidence he had run afoul of some angry mob, but if that were so then why should he still be alive? It could not have been the _gendarmie_ who came to his aid, or he would be in hospital. A memory rose unbidden, of a furious giant holding him aloft, shielding him from harm, and he stared aghast at the image. Not his imagination, for he would never willingly contemplate being in such an embarrassing position, so it must be real.

A board creaked outside his door, and he tensed automatically, braced for confrontation. His first instinct was to at least prop himself up on his arms, as the thought of reclining horizontally while facing an unknown potential enemy was untenable, but the attempt sent flares of agony through his chest. He fell back with a gasp which he strove to muffle. Obviously some broken ribs.

The person outside stilled at the sound of the breath, and he blinked away the black spots in his vision so he could focus on them should they enter. But whoever it was did not. Instead, after a moment of stillness, he heard a rapid patter of feet heading away from the door. He waited for a long minute, listening, but heard no further sound, so he subsided back into his pillow, releasing his useless tension. His eyes slid closed again, his body crying out to be allowed to continue its rest, the burst of pain from his ribs only reinforcing its opinion that it should be allowed more time to heal. A _lot_ more.

He was almost thankful when the door creaked quietly open, as it gave him an excuse to disobey the demands of his traitorous body. When he opened his eyes again, however, any burgeoning sense of gratitude fled utterly as he stared into the face of his old nemesis.

Valjean looked at him with compassion and faint worry, and in that moment there was nothing Javert wanted more than to find his truncheon and smash that insulting expression from the man's face. But he couldn't have moved if he tried. Memory chose that fortuitous time to cooperate, and all the events of last (?) night rushed back. He froze, caught immobile between the shock of seeing that face and the inexorable roll of shameful memory, and could only stare incomprehendingly at Valjean.

The ex-convict moved to his bedside cautiously, as if approaching some manner of wild beast. Javert did not allow himself to shrink back, glaring up defiantly. "Cosette told me you were awake," Valjean informed him softly, standing over him in apparent concern. Which explained the retreating feet. If he had been that particular girl, Javert supposed he would be unwilling to face him either. Unfortunately, her reaction had been to fetch _this_ man, and for that Javert could not thank her.

He opened his mouth. "What day is this?" he croaked, shocked by the crack in his voice, appalled by this further evidence of his body's weakness. Valjean looked surprised, as if that had not been what the man had expected him to ask. But it was an important thing to know. He had to know how long he'd been here, in ... in Valjean's hands.

"You've been unconscious for two days, Jave... Monsieur l'Inspector." Javert blinked. Considering that Valjean had seen him at his utter weakest, and that even now he was helpless in the man's care, the sudden switch to the title of respect was wholly unnecessary, even frivolous. Javert did not approve of frivolity.

"Do you have a problem with my name, Valjean?" he asked crisply. At the man's confused headshake, he continued, "Then please do not hesitate to use it. Circumstances could hardly be more informal. Understood?" He glared coldly up at his captor, who nodded bemusedly.

Valjean looked at him for a few moments, then sank down into the bedside chair, a grave expression on his face. Javert tensed again, ready for whatever the ex-convict intended. Valjean cleared his throat.

"Javert ..." he began, "you are, ah, gravely injured. The doctor ... He had some, ah, well ..."

Javert closed his eyes in frustration. Could the man be any more inefficient? "What is it, Valjean?"

The other man squared his broad shoulders, turning to face Javert as if facing a rabid lion, steeled for some unknown reaction. Javert could have snorted. He was hardly in any condition to be a threat to this man, especially since, if his recently reaquired memories were correct, the ex-convict had bowled a swathe through a mob. Injured in the man's house, unable even to prop himself into a sitting position, Javert was hardly someone for Valjean to fear.

"The doctor says that, to prevent a possibly fatal infection of your leg wound, you must remain here, for at least two weeks." Having rushed out this piece, Valjean leaned back, obviously waiting for Javert to explode like a badly-loaded pistol.

"I see," Javert said calmly. So Valjean had an official medical authority to keep him prisoner. "Is this a problem? I understand you and your daughter live here. Am I an inconvinience?"

Valjean blinked. "No! No, of course not. I merely thought ..."

"Yes?"

Valjean cleared his throat again. There was something faintly humourous about the sight of this powerfully built man hunched with embarrassment and blushing slightly. If the situation were not so desperate, Javert might have allowed himself a rare smile.

"I thought," Valjean explained softly, "that given our history, you might not be pleased to have to remain in my house. It seemed ... almost an affront, to me, that you should be forced into this position. I'm sorry. I should have been quicker in helping you outside. Then perhaps you would not be so badly injured."

Javert closed his eyes. "That was hardly your fault, Valjean. I am entirely to blame for the mismanagement of that situation. I reacted badly, and allowed events to move outside of my control. There should have been no need for you, or anyone else, to come to my aid." He opened his eyes to look curiously at his keeper. "I did not expect to survive that misjudgement."

Valjean looked down in shame. "You nearly didn't, Inspec ... Javert. When they backed down, and I ... looked at you, I thought I would be looking at a corpse. I was terrified I had been too late. And then you were looking at me, as furious as ever, and I felt such a relief ... I truly thought you were dead. According to the doctor, few men would have survived the beating you recieved. He thinks you are a very stubborn man, to have stayed alive, let alone conscious for as long as you were. And I think I must agree." He looked up at Javert, and there was a wry humour in his face. "I, more than any other, know how stubborn you can be, Inspector Javert."

Despite himself, Javert understood that momentary humour, and permitted that understanding to show. True, what he chose to think of as his dedication was often mistaken for stubbornness, and Valjean of all men had felt the force of it for far longer than anyone else. But that was because no-one else had _required_ it for so long. No-one but this man had been so successful in eluding him again and again. If anyone here could be called stubborn, it was Valjean. Their enforced relationship would have ended long ago if Valjean had not kept stubbornly trying to achieve 'freedom'.

"Stubbornness, Valjean," he said softly, "is one of the few characteristics I think we share. And if this doctor knew of what you have done in your life, I believe he would agree."

Some of the stiffness in Valjean's posture dissipated, and his eyes softened. "Perhaps, Javert," he concurred. There was a momentary silence, as if neither man could help but pause to consider that, and all that had brought them to this. It was a long journey, and none of it particularly pleasant. Then practicality intruded once more, and Javert, unable to raise himself, nevertheless straightened himself as far as possible, and turned an interogative gaze at Valjean.

"So," he commanded softly, "what now, Valjean?"

R&R?


End file.
